


Give a Little Bit

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Confused Castiel, Confused Dean, Dry Humping, Emotional Constipation, Explicit Language, Hand Jobs, Headcanon, Heavy Petting, Homophobic Language, Human Castiel, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Premature Ejaculation, Slash, Slow Burn, glacial build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost two years after the events of “Writing on the Wall,” Dean finally gets the relationship moving again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give a Little Bit

_February 2014_

Slow. Easy. Soft. Gentle. Relaxed. _Calm._

That was what this was, and it was gonna stay that way until he fucking said it could change, goddammit.

Dean cautiously parted his lips and barely licked across Cas’s lower lip, and Cas’s mouth opened in return—equally cautious, he noticed. Well, good. That little prick had better be doing _everything_ cautiously tonight. In fact, he’d better do everything cautiously for the rest of his _life_.

This was the first time in three months since he’d…gone upstairs. Truth be told, he hadn’t particularly wanted to tonight, either. But a whole combination of things had happened to culminate in him ascending Bobby’s stairs like they were leading to the gallows and knocking on Cas’s door. Bobby’d gone out of town to meet with some guy who had a rare book but refused to do business over the internet or even through mail, and Sam was effectively drugged on the couch downstairs, dosed heavily with cold meds; nothing could wake him up while on those. Mix that in with Cas moping around all day and giving Dean the basset-eyes every time he avoided him and Dean…dammit, feeling _bad_ about it…

Yeah. He’d gone upstairs. Just to make that stupid angel stop looking so—so _depressed_. It put him off his goddamn dinner.

Dean tensed a little when he felt Cas’s hand dragging down his spine, but Cas didn’t go for his butt, just rested his hand gently on the small of Dean’s back, his palm warm through his shirt. The fingers of his other hand were in Dean’s hair, not really holding him in place or anything—Dean could pull away if he wanted to. And he didn’t—this was fine.

He didn’t really have Cas pinned on his back, but they weren’t really on their sides, either. Dean was just half-on him, their lower legs kind of tangled up. It was…mostly pleasant. But then Dean sourly remembered that this was exactly how they’d been last time, and look how that’d gone. He’d been more relaxed than he could remember, sitting up here fucking _petting_ Cas, and the son of a bitch had—

Scowling, Dean pulled away from Cas’s mouth and rested his face against his throat instead. Naturally Cas was fine with that, just nuzzling back. ‘Cause there wasn’t anything on the planet he apparently _wasn’t_ fine with when it came to shit like this.

Including rubbing one out on Dean’s thigh.

He refused to entertain the notion that it was “only natural” after the year or more they’d been…doing what they’d been doing, because what they’d been doing was _not_ conducive to premature angelculation. All they did was—Jesus, he still hated to even think it, even after all this time—was _make out_. Dean would just…sometimes come upstairs when everyone was asleep—to _talk_ , thank you very much—and through _no fucking fault of his own_ he’d somehow wind up being kissed by Cas. He still had no clue how it happened, he just knew it was complete fuckery that he didn’t know what to do with. But trust Cas to fuck even _fuckery_ up.

First time he’d suddenly realized that Cas had gotten it up just from Dean _kissing_ him, he’d run. He wasn’t embarrassed to admit it—hell _yes_ , he was going to run away after getting poked in the stomach by some dude’s _boner_ , because that was _not cool_! And what the fuck was wrong with Cas?! Why had he gotten wood from just a little kissing?! Dean certainly hadn’t—and never _would_ , as far as he was concerned, because kissing a dude _was not hot_. In fact, it was about as unsexy as it got, even if Cas did lick and nibble at certain spots he liked. But that was different.

The…next time he’d finally managed to go back up and talk to Cas (and all but talk him _down_ , as he’d gotten _depressed_ again, the bastard) and they’d wound up kissing, Cas had been anxious and uptight (and so had Dean, to be honest), and it hadn’t happened again. But the time after that it did. But by then, Dean had had months to…sort of reason through it. Cas…wasn’t like other people. As Bobby sometimes (and _patronizingly_ ) reminded him, he wasn’t completely human. And he had this absolutely unshakeable virginity that Dean doubted he’d ever get rid of (poor sap). So when he felt that horribly familiar _prod_ , he’d forced himself to _not_ jump out of the bed and fall on the floor again. No. He’d just…scoot away from it. That was all.

God, that was sick.

But he’d _put up with it_ , dammit. He’d—fuck _everything_ —he’d gotten used to the fact that Cas got…ridiculously turned on by him. And that was sick, too— _everything_ about that was sick, knowing that Cas had weird hots for him at all, and that Dean couldn’t even take pride in just how awesome said hots were because _Cas was a fucking guy_.

For _months_ that’s how it would go. Some making out, Cas’d get turned on, and Dean would ignore the poking until he couldn’t stand it anymore and just _leave_. Cas could just…jerk himself off or something. But three months ago, Dean had been too focused or something. He’d been thinking too much on how _stupid_ it was that he’d actually vaguely _missed_ getting this, what with him not coming up here while Cas’s wrist was broken, that he should _not_ be enjoying this like he was, and hadn’t been paying attention to how frantic Cas was getting, or the way Cas was _grinding_ against his leg, and then Cas had suddenly just seized up and let out a strangled, shocked, and very _loud_ yell, and Dean knew _exactly_ what that meant because he’d _fucking done that that first time—!_

Cas hadn’t even finished jizzing his own pants when Dean shoved him away and shoved _himself_ away and on the floor— _again_ —with a choked shout of disgust and horror. He’d managed to stagger to his feet in time to see Cas twitching out the last of his orgasm-throes, looking like he was about to have a heart attack from both anxiety and ecstasy, and that had been _enough_ for Dean and he’d bolted, and he’d been _extremely_ grateful for Bobby for finding a case that looked to be a witch out in East Texas, so could they be dears and go take care of that?

Take care of it they had—quicker than Dean wanted—so he insisted they go back to Bobby’s via Arizona because how long had it been since they saw the Grand Canyon, huh, and _oh damn_ , looked like another job has cropped up in Oregon, and they were _barely_ a thousand miles out, and since they were so close they should go take care of that now, and he didn’t fucking care that it was barely anything to go on (and he’d been vindicated by it turning out to be a case after all).

He’d kept it up for almost three months. Avoiding South Dakota had been his primary concern the whole time. Sure, they hadn’t stayed completely away—they’d dropped by if it was necessary, if he needed to work on the car in a better spot than on the side of the road, or they needed to avoid motels for a bit because their latest credit card scam was up, or because Sam was a stupid tit who insisted they go back just to drop in and say hello and get some info from Bobby, if anything. But Dean had been professional the whole time—and avoided Cas, only talking to him if necessary and not even going upstairs to sleep—he’d crashed on the floor or stolen the downstairs couch before Sam could get it and made _him_ sleep upstairs. It’d all gone so well, and Dean was sure he could’ve kept it up for another month or two—until Sam had to go and get _sick_.

They’d been working a case in Nebraska—oh, near South Dakota again, wasn’t _that_ convenient—and had been two days into their hunt when Dean had noticed Sam did not look good. Sure, he’d kept up his work, but Dean heard him coughing, saw the way he looked like he was about to pass out all the time, the way he always wrapped himself up in coats and blankets. He knew what that meant. Well, he could walk it off—a cold was nothing. Dean dealt with them all the time.

Trust Sam to not get hit with a cold, but with a really bitchy bout of _flu_.

He’d not even been able to join Dean on the final leg of the hunt—he’d had to go take out the angry spirit on his own (which he had, _thank you_ , and he’d done a damn fine job). And when he’d gotten back, Sammy had put his foot down with a great, hacking cough—they were going back to Bobby’s. _Right now._

Pussy.

Dean had called ahead, telling them to ready the fainting couch and the smelling salts because Sam was sick. When they’d arrived, Bobby had helped him carry their stuff in while Sam had immediately collapsed on the long couch with about a dozen blankets (why the hell did Bobby have so many fugly afghans?). But Bobby had only stayed long enough to make sure Sam was gonna survive the night and that his medicine cabinet was stocked before zipping off for Florida to meet that book dealer. Which meant Dean and Sam were on their own.

With Cas.

Jesus Christ, Cas had been in a complete _panic_. He was convinced that Sam was dying, and so he had to be by his side at all times and take care of him and bring him soup and give him medicine and rub him down with cool rags and give him more blankets and take them off when his fever finally broke and all but wipe his snotty nose for him. It was _obscene_ , doubly so because this bullshit had just started—bad enough he’d been freaking out like that about _himself_ with his wrist, but now he was gonna do it over everyone else, too?

Sam loved it, of course, lying there like the Queen of Sheba and letting Cas pamper him like the giant baby he was. Dean was convinced that it wasn’t _that_ bad, but was just faking it so they’d have to go back to Bobby’s because he couldn’t handle the pace Dean was setting. Screw him.

‘Course, if he wanted to get them both back to Bobby’s so Dean would—have to see—

He’d hidden most of the past few days, either going into town, tinkering with his car, or locking himself in the back room to sleep. He’d felt a little bad, avoiding Cas at the cost of avoiding Sam as well, but hell, Cas was doing fine taking care of Sam right now. But he couldn’t keep away from him forever, and every time he’d passed through the kitchen to get something or come in to check up on Sam, he’d see Cas, and Cas would see him, and he’d see those sorrowful eyes even as he pitifully stirred the chicken soup on the stove, and he could _feel_ them on his back, and he’d feel a painful little clench every fucking time, because—

And now he was up here in bed with a scrawny ex-angel clinging to him, and he was trying to lick his ear.

Dean jerked away, getting that sensitive flesh away from Cas’s tongue, before mashing him a bit, rolling more firmly on top of him and making it clear he wasn’t interested. Not that what Cas did in return was much better—now he was clinging tighter, pressing his face up against Dean’s shoulder and petting his chest with his free hand, the other still knotted in Dean’s hair.

God, this was weird. Dean wasn’t sure when the scales had tipped further away from “wrong” and more into “weird,” but they had—though the “wrong” was still pretty heavy. It just felt more _weird_ lately, was all. He knew for sure that someone telling him ten years ago that he was the destined vessel of the archangel Michael would be _way_ more believable than someone telling him he’d be eventually be cuddling and making out with a _guy_.

Dean scowled. Sam had once said that their lives were weird. No, _Dean’s_ life was weird. Sam’s life was perfectly normal because he didn’t have to deal with _this_.

Breathing deeply and gathering his forces again, Dean slowly skimmed one hand down Cas’s side until it came to rest on his hip, his thumb getting under his shirt to rest on his bare skin. Out of habit, he gently stroked back and forth, but it was mostly okay. Cas’s stomach and sides were Safe Zones—there was nothing there but soft skin and he wasn’t all hairy and shit, so there was nothing that forcibly reminded him of dudeness or something. As such, he didn’t feel entirely skeevy touching and petting him there.

Cas’s back was also a Safe Zone, so Dean wasn’t too annoyed with himself when his hand crept like it had a mind of its own up under Cas’s shirt and sliding around until it rested right on the small of his back, his fingers bumping the top of Cas’s jeans. With his eyes closed, this really wasn’t so bad—in fact, on some level, it was nice. Cas was slim and warm, all tucked up next to him, his breath soft (if a little shaky) and hot against his neck, and with the way the mattress sagged, it _almost_ felt like Cas had a curvy waist, so the way his arm slung low around him like this almost felt like it was supposed to.

Trust Cas to ruin it, because he suddenly started moving again, tentatively tilting his head up, and then Cas was kissing him, still slow, but he was gently running the tip of his tongue along Dean’s lower lip, and Dean wasn’t stupid—he was asking permission. And grudgingly, Dean gave in, letting Cas slowly lick his way inside his mouth, and Dean returned the favor because he wasn’t just gonna sit there and _take_ that—hell no.

One of the more annoying things about all this was that Cas was not the blundering, clumsy copy-cat he used to be. He still copied plenty, yes, and he wasn’t some kind of expert or anything, but he was…no longer just trying to repeat Dean’s moves on Dean anymore. When he was all unskilled repetition, Dean could privately make fun of him for it and ignore anything that started accidentally feeling good. He couldn’t do that anymore—Cas caught on _quick_. It only took once or twice for him to learn exactly where he could kiss Dean’s neck to make him twitch, and exactly how to curl his tongue around Dean’s that got the most response, because Dean couldn’t _help_ it.

This whole thing pissed him off. This situation could’ve been _awesome_. He was Dean Winchester, the master, and Cas was pretty much the _perfect_ student—a blank slate, but eager, quick to learn, and _damn_ dedicated. But he was a fucking _dude_ , so like _hell_ Dean was gonna Henry Higgins him, because how the fuck were you supposed to turn a _guy_ into the perfect woman? You couldn’t, that’s what. And it wasn’t fair.

 _Hmph_ , he grunted internally, pulling his mouth away from Cas’s and reaching up to lightly press his thumb against Cas’s jaw, because then he’d tilt his head up and Dean could start kissing there instead.

Neck wasn’t necessarily safe, but Dean tended to focus there anyway—the occasional trace of stubble or hint of aftershave was tolerable because if Dean was kissing and licking and nibbling Cas’s neck, Cas couldn’t do the same things back. That, and…well…Cas liked it. That was just one more thing Dean couldn’t friggin’ help—he _liked_ knowing whoever he was with was enjoying it. He worked _hard_ to please women—he was _not_ a wham-bam, thank you. As such, he was so goddamned trained he couldn’t even turn it off when it came to Cas. _Double-hmph._

Despite being two years now into his new skin, it still didn’t take much necking to get Cas panting—to be fair, it wasn’t like he and Dean made a habit out of this ( _thank God_ ). But still—it was pathetic (and a little disconcerting) just how quick Cas’s breath got reduced to short bursts as he squirmed quietly, his fingers moving restlessly through Dean’s hair and flexing against his shirt as Dean stroked his tongue across Cas’s stuttering pulse again and again before grazing his teeth across the same spot. After some hesitation, he decided what the hell and reached up to tug his collar down a bit, exposing the soft skin over his clavicles. Cas was shaking by the time he was done sucking gently across them, and when he very slowly dipped his tongue into the well at the base of his throat, he got a very soft and shuddering moan for his troubles. No surprise—that was one of Cas’s favorite spots.

Jesus—why did he even know that, man.

Well, he was gonna ignore that—he was gonna concentrate on all of the soft noises Cas was making instead. Or he would, but he suddenly became aware that Cas’s hips were rolling dangerously close to his leg as he fidgeted—Dean did not want his leg humped again, dammit.

But Cas seemed to know he was edging into the newly-declared No Man’s Land, and so tilted away without any kind of warning from Dean and returned to his fidgeting and shaking under Dean’s efforts. That wasn’t a surprise, either—Dean had slid his hands up under Cas’s shirt, concentrating on the soft and smooth flesh of his back, feeling each and every bump on his spine, and trying _not_ to think of dudeness, because…dammit, he was kind of okay right now. Cas was obviously way into it, but he was showing some actual restraint for a change so Dean didn’t have wrestle with him or deal with him trying to grab anything he shouldn’t—all he had to do was be quietly on edge, waiting for when he’d have to push Cas away.

‘Course, there was always the issue of how he _didn’t_ have the impulse to push him away right _now_ , or to stop what he was doing at all.

Dammit, no. He’d…it’d been _two years_. He could handle this now. So he was gonna handle it.

He pulled his hands away from Cas’s back to curl around his waist, just resting his mouth against Cas’s throat for a moment and instead stroking the hot skin of his torso, making himself inch a little higher each time, keeping his motions firm. He was no stranger to getting a hand or two up under Cas’s shirt ( _Jesus_ ), but he avoided going very high—because going too high meant he would feel things that Were Not Breasts and that just pissed him off. But…well, he was determined to go a bit higher tonight. Because—he had no idea. But he was.

He finally reached the first of Cas’s ribs, keeping up his motions, but when he tried to stroke upwards again he had to come to a stop when Cas twitched violently under his hands and gasped.

_…oh, are you even serious._

Dean wasn’t sure what was more ridiculous—the fact that Cas was _ticklish_ or that Dean had just now discovered it, two years into coming up here to pet and make out with him.

He quickly decided the former—because it was _not_ ridiculous that it had taken him two years to do it, because that meant he’d sensibly kept his hands off of Cas for that long, thank you very much.

He was pleased to note that his usual inclination to take advantage of it any time he discovered that particular trait on women was decidedly absent this time. He didn’t _tickle_ dudes—he was pretty sure that a guy could get his Man Card revoked for that. So instead, he just slid his hands lower again—he’d done enough petting under his shirt, and besides, Cas was tugging a little on his hair—he was probably demanding more mouth-to-mouth. Well, Dean would give him more of that when he was _ready_ , dammit, and not before. He made his displeasure known by biting down against Cas’s shoulder—not hard, and nowhere near a legitimate chomp, but enough that Cas would get the message.

Well, apparently it _was_ a legitimate bite, because Cas shuddered and arched up against him, gasping as he did—what the hell? Was he that much of a puss? Dean released him, pulling back as Cas’s hips bumped against his thigh—

…oh.

Goddammit.

Yeah, Cas was in pain, all right, but it had zero to do with getting bitten.

There was a serious problem with coming up here like he had tonight—every time Dean had snuck upstairs before, it had been very late and Cas had been ready for bed. Had to be that late, otherwise someone else would be up and might see him (and he wasn’t gonna lie—half of the draw of coming up late was the possibility that Cas was already asleep and so, well, damn, he’d tried, but he guessed he wasn’t gonna talk to him tonight, what a shame). But Bobby’d left early and Sam had crashed before eight. As such, Dean had come up early, too, and Cas had still been fully-clothed—and now he was sitting there, all cinched up in jeans, with what was probably a really painful boner.

Dean scowled, stilling them both as Cas shifted away from him again. Now he recognized his squirming for what it was—shit, he’d just been _sitting here_ , hadn’t he, all hard and in pain and doing fuck all to unzip his fly and make it so his dick wasn’t bent in uncomfortable ways. What the fuck was _wrong_ with him? Not that Dean _wanted_ him to unzip his pants—but why the hell _wouldn’t_ he? That’s what you did when you were hard and hurtin’. Not to mention he’d done absolutely nothing to give Dean a high-sign, and now Dean felt vaguely bad for him—here he’d been petting him and gnawing on him and making it worse and hadn’t even known about it. Well, it was his own damn fault—he wouldn’t say or do anything.

Unfortunately, Dean didn’t know what _he_ should do. Did Cas even know that proper protocol to ease that pain was to just let it out, or would he just sit there and chafe and cramp and God knew what else? Pfft—Dean knew the answer to that. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to pull back and explain to Cas that he should just unzip his damn jeans. Good _God_ —just the thought of _telling_ Cas to undo his pants was enough to make him want to leap out of bed now. He supposed he could just sit still for a while, let Cas calm down, but that would mean just sitting here _cuddling_ him, and Cas wouldn’t get the picture—he’d keep petting him and refuse to do anything to alleviate the situation. Of course, there was always the option of calling it a night.

…but fuck everything, Dean didn’t want to right now. _Son of a_ bitch _…_

There was only one thing to do. He _so_ didn’t want to do it, but, having been in that situation before and knowing exactly what Cas was going through, it pushed all his dude-related sympathy pain buttons and so he just…couldn’t help it.

After dithering with his hand against Cas’s stomach for way too long, he finally just steeled himself and forced his hand a little lower, popping open the button on Cas’s jeans before gingerly easing the zipper down with two fingers, doing everything in his power to avoid touching _that_ (or, admittedly, get Cas’s dick caught in said zipper, because even he wasn’t that mean).

Unfortunately, right after he did it and Cas moaned in pitiful relief, Dean was suddenly struck with the realization that he’d just _unzipped Cas’s pants_.

Okay. He needed to step back—that just was…that was _sick_. Kissing was one thing, but he’d—

Dean grunted when Cas’s arms tightened around him, pulling him closer, and Dean’s eyes widened when Cas’s mouth was on his, and he was all but yanked down on Cas as Cas rolled onto his back again and took Dean with him—and dear _God_ , he’d just gotten _poked_ , fuck fuck _fuck_ , that made it so his hips mashed right against Cas’s and Cas was gonna start trying to _grind against his dick_ —!

He rolled backwards in a desperate attempt to get _away_ from him, but Cas just came with him, and _shit_ , he wouldn’t stop _kissing_ him the whole time, panting and getting his chest all pressed up against him, and now Dean was positive he was gonna just try and start rubbing against his leg, because he was freed from his confines and—oh, _fuck him_ , it wasn’t gonna be an unconscious accident this time—

In his immediate panic, it took Dean a couple of seconds to figure out that no, Cas was _not_ humping his leg despite the fact that he had attacked Dean again. But just because Cas wasn’t rubbing his hard-on all over Dean’s hip did _not_ mean this was okay! What the fuck had just happened—was _still_ happening?! Cas’s hands were wandering, and Dean felt one slide up under his shirt to touch the skin of his back, and he could do nothing but helplessly respond to the way Cas’s tongue slipped into his mouth to play with his own. He needed—he needed to just _sit still_ , dammit, but—

Cas’s tongue vanished, but his lips were still right there up against Dean’s as he shivered and panted, and suddenly Cas’s eyes were open and staring right through Dean in a way that made his breath catch, and Cas was skimming his hands up to cup Dean’s face even as he _groaned_ his name, and there went the heat in his chest, filling up _everything_ …

He wanted to back off but couldn’t, not with how Cas had just said his name, bringing his mouth back to his own, but it was brief, because now Cas was going for his neck. Dean stiffened when he felt Cas’s _prick_ again, rubbing along his hip, but he pulled back once more as Cas’s fingers hesitantly slid under the hem of his shirt from the front this time, creeping up his stomach to get to his ribs. It wasn’t like this was the first time Cas had gotten handsy and _intense_ and shit with his making out, but the last time he’d done that had been—the _last_ time, and Dean _so_ didn’t want Cas to rub one out on his person again!

…and he wasn’t. Once more, Dean suddenly realized, as Cas’s fingers flexed against his thudding heartbeat and he licked at Dean’s pulse, Cas was actively making an effort to keep his stiffie _away_ from him.

Well, _good_. ‘Bout time he had a little consideration about that shit.

But he still didn’t have any consideration about anything else. Somehow, Dean had—had flicked some kind of _switch_ on Cas and now he was horny and desperate and Dean didn’t know what to do with him. Which was stupid, because it wasn’t like this was new or anything—he’d done it before on occasion. And every time, he’d either just kissed him until he was still again or just _left_. So why the fuck did this time have Dean so screwed up and muddled and not knowing what on earth to do in response to _both_ of Cas’s hands getting up under his shirt and taking it with him, and if he didn’t do something Cas was gonna _strip it off him_ —

He knew why he didn’t know what to do. Because unzipping Cas’s pants had apparently sent a very clear signal—a signal Dean so did _not_ mean to send because that— _that was not on the menu!_

But he couldn’t think—Cas had gotten his shirt all the way up past his ribs, and there was obvious intent there. He wasn’t just accidentally taking the hem with him as he pawed at him, no, Dean glanced down and saw he had the material gripped tightly in his hands, dear _Christ_ , Cas was taking his clothes off _and Dean was letting him_. He just blinked stupidly as he _let_ Cas liberate him of his shirt, raising up to even help him, and then he just sat there again as Cas’s burning hands stroked at his chest, eagerly trying to feel every inch that they could as he leaned forward again, still keeping his hips angled away. Dean’s breath hitched and he finally reached up and grabbed Cas when he felt the wet open mouth on his throat, because—goddammit—

“ _Cas_ ,” he managed, vaguely annoyed that he sounded so strangled as he tried to force his voice to _work_ , because this—this was feeling way too much like—fuck, that _first night_ , what was he _doing_ —

But of course Cas had no idea what his tone meant (and frankly, Dean wasn’t sure either), because he roughly dragged his cheek back up and as he closed the distance Dean heard it again, almost frantic and right there against his mouth, “ _Dean_ ,” and both of them moaned with that kiss. Dean wasn’t sure why he was stroking his hands down Cas’s torso to grab at the hem of his shirt, but he was aware that some dim part of his brain was insisting that he get that off of him now because here Dean was shirtless while Cas was still completely clothed and that was unacceptable. So he fixed it.

Fucking _Christ_ , Cas’s hands were _everywhere_ , and Dean shuddered every time his hips bumped a little too far forward and he got prodded. That effectively kept him from getting really turned on by any of this ( _thank GOD_ ), but every time Cas just moved his hips away, he still kept pretty much everything else all pressed up against Dean. God, he was hot— _hot_ , and every inch of bare skin was mashed against Dean’s because it was ridiculous, how they were both clinging so tightly to each other, but it was still happening. And it was so goddamn _wrong_ , because with Cas’s chest against his own, he could feel that he was _definitely_ a dude, because that was a chest just as flat as his own, but it was so warm and smooth and he kept fidgeting so all Dean could think of was how _nice_ that felt against him as he rubbed, and he couldn’t help his own helpless wheeze when Cas finally stopped sucking on his tongue and let him breathe again.

But he _couldn’t_ breathe, because Cas didn’t just sit there, oh no, he was on the move—it was back to that full frontal assault on his throat again, one hand insistently pushing on his shoulder to try and get him on his back so he had easier access, and _fuck him_ , Dean almost went with it, almost _rolled right over on his back_ so Cas could jump his bones, and god _dammit_ , what the hell _was_ this?! Reaching up and getting a hand knotted in Cas’s hair, he forced himself to yank Cas’s head back and away from where he was sucking right at the base of his neck, and then he threw his own weight into it as he pushed _him_ back instead, because Cas was _not_ gonna get him on his back—it was _not happening_!

It was a weird angle—he had to keep his lower half away from Cas’s while still pinning him down—but it still somehow worked. Cas’s arms were like a fucking vice, wrapped tight around his shoulders, his fingers digging into his flesh. But Dean’s own hands were doing stupid shit, and it was only when he suddenly felt Cas’s boner again, right there hanging out of his jeans though thankfully wrapped up in his shorts but this time _rubbing against his arm_ that he realized he’d just reached down and was _stroking Cas’s thigh_.

His hand flew upwards to rest on Cas’s stomach—safe ground, just smooth softness there, but it so _wasn’t_ safe ground right now, because it was just _inches_ away from _that_ , and God help him, he was going to do something stupid if he didn’t stop—this was _insane_ , the whole thing was fucking insane, _he_ had gone just as insane as Cas had! And Cas wasn’t helping, no—he kept making those little noises, that were driving Dean crazy, those tiny happy sounds because despite wanting to stop, despite knowing he _should_ stop, Dean sure as hell _hadn’t_ stopped kissing all along his clavicles and even kept on and licked a small line down to the top of his sternum. But even though Dean was clearly out of his goddamn mind, he could still tell there was something else in Cas’s breathy little gasps and grunts and sighs: frustration. Dean knew it was—he could even feel it, the way Cas’s body was rigid and restless, his stomach muscles twitching under Dean’s hand, and he _knew_ what he was going through—just sitting there with a hard-on and not able to do anything with it, Jesus Christ, he was probably hurtin’ at this point, but he wouldn’t _say_ anything, wouldn’t _stop_ him, wouldn’t even lean forward and rub it on him—oh Jesus _God_ was he about to—

It was _Cas_ —Cas beneath him, writhing in what was both probably agony and ecstasy that would shame Chuck Heston, Cas that he’d worked up into this complete and utter froth, Cas who had just whimpered Dean’s name as he flexed his fingers against Cas’s stomach, and yes, he _was_ in pain, and _wrecked_ , just like before—

 _Cas, god-fucking-dammit! It’s just fucking_ Cas _!_

Dean just—just did it. Just forced himself to move even as he pulled away from where he’d been licking insistently at his throat, squeezing his eyes shut, and twitching in near-revulsion as he felt his fingers wrap around Cas’s stiff prick through his shorts.

_Sonofabitch, I have a COCK in my hand! AGAIN!_

He didn’t have time to think about just how fucking wrong, sick, twisted, and _horrible_ what he’d just done was—Cas leapt a mile and gasped so loud that _Dean_ jumped. And then all the breath went out of him when Cas’s arms constricted around him so tight he couldn’t even get a new lungful of air, and then Cas just _threw_ himself against Dean, his hips thrusting wildly against Dean’s hand first once—but then again and again, hard, uncoordinated, desperate, and Dean wasn’t even _moving_ , no, Cas was just sitting there doing all the work—

 _Winchester, you’re letting him fuck your hand. You’re letting him_ fuck _your_ hand _!_

And he was. He _so_ was. And Dean was already starting to feel sick, because he’d done it on _purpose_ , he was doing this for Cas, he was _giving Cas a handjob_ , and Cas was so _into_ it, his hips bucking up off the bed and against Dean every time he pushed forward, his moans louder than Dean would have liked even if they were muffled against his shoulder—but it didn’t mean Dean couldn’t hear what he was saying. He wasn’t just moaning mindlessly, he was _saying_ it, saying his _name_ , over and over, almost in time with his thrusting, and the fingers digging into Dean’s shoulder blades hurt, but he just—he couldn’t _help_ it, he squeezed tighter and Cas moved faster, thrust harder—

And then Cas suddenly arched hard off the bed, his back bowing up, his eyes squeezed shut—“ _Oh—Dean! D—_ ”

His second _incredibly fucking loud_ cry of Dean’s name was cut off when Dean reached up as fast as he could with his free hand and clapped it over Cas’s mouth, horrified. “ _Shut up!_ ” he hissed furiously. _Don’t_ scream _my name, goddammit!_ Jesus Christ, everyone could _hear_ him! His panicked horror suddenly shifted to outrage when he felt Cas first lick and then _bite_ his hand—and then the outrage went right back to horror because Cas was just jerking helplessly against him, his cries muffled but still going—because he was coming.

In Dean’s hand.

It really didn’t matter that there was cloth between him and the spooge this time. He still knew it—still knew that he’d just reached down and jerked Cas until he went off like Old Faithful. And he could still _tell_ it was there, because _shit fuck balls where he was grabbing was getting warm and it would start seeping through—_

Dean yanked his hand away as if he’d been burned, and then he released where he’d been accidentally squeezing Cas’s face, trying to get him to shut the fuck up. Cas just flopped backwards, looking dazed and almost cross-eyed like he wasn’t sure what had just happened, but Dean was not sticking around for afterglow, _hell no_ , he was _getting the fuck out of there_.

Easier said that done. Cas was going limp, but he seemed to be going limp piece by piece—and lookie there, Dean’s luck was making it so Cas’s arms were last to go. Fuck that—he wasn’t gonna wait for his arms to go slack. Engaging manual override, he reached up and grabbed his wrists, making him let him go. He got the message, dropping his arms when Dean released him, and then Dean was pushing away as fast as he could, all but scrambling off of the bed and actually landing on his feet this time instead of his butt like he had the last God knew how many times shit like this happened. While he didn’t have to worry about his shoes, having left those downstairs, he couldn’t find his goddamned shirt because Cas had _thrown_ it and Dean had been too messed up to watch where it had landed—where the fuck was it?!

He finally saw it on the other side of the night table. Rushing over, he snatched it up and pulled it on as he darted across the room, but he couldn’t help it—the minute his hand got on the doorknob, he looked back over his shoulder, and there Cas was, sprawled out on the bed, his pants still open, his face flushed and dazed, his sex-hair in full disarray, and that fucking _look_ on his face, more intense than he’d seen it in a long time—since that first night, all directed right at _him_ —

Dean did not run from the room. A fast-walk was not a run, thank you.

Not for the first time, Dean wished that there was a way to lock Cas _in_ his room. Well, he’d just make do with the other option and lock Cas _out_ of his own. After he took a detour to the bathroom, however, because there was one task that was on the top of the list: get his hand under scalding water and scrub it until he didn’t have any skin left.

He locked the bathroom door, too, just in case, and then furiously twisted the taps—he didn’t care that he’d only done it through Cas’s shorts and hadn’t gotten his fingers sticky this time. He’d _grabbed cock_ —he was washing his fucking hand!

Just like last time, the burning, painful heat was nothing but a relief as he scrubbed fiercely at his fingers, his palm, and all the way up to his elbow. _Sick, sick, sick!_ he snarled to himself as he rinsed off, and then finally just had to grip the sides of the sink tightly, some part of him dimly reflecting how very familiar this was. Only differences were that he had a shirt on and he wasn’t about to throw up. Everything else? Exactly the same—right down to not being able to look himself in the eye.

The horror of someone hearing Cas shrieking like a girl had worn off—that brief moment of utter panic had made him forget that Sam was impossible to wake up when sick and drugged-out and that Bobby was gone. Nobody’d heard him. So didn’t make it okay, though. Cas ever made noise like that again, he’d _kill him_.

Dean twitched violently—because he realized too late that the thought implied that he was in fact going to do that again.

He stormed out of the bathroom, slamming the light off as he went, and he quickly and quietly ensconced himself in the back bedroom, locking the door behind him. For a moment, he just stood in the middle of the room, quivering with indignation, disgust, and a whole lot of other shit he didn’t really understand, but then finally started moving, sitting heavily down on the couch and peeling off his socks so he could settle in and go to sleep—so he wouldn’t have to think about what he’s just done.

He couldn’t think about that, much less about what he might be doing the _future_ right now, thinking of the possibility of that—happening _again_. No, he had to think of _now_ , and what he was going to _do_. This wasn’t like last time—he couldn’t run off to Texas and hide from Cas. He had to stay here because his brother was pathetic. And besides—he couldn’t even blame it all on Cas this time. Oh, he could blame a _lot_ of it on Cas, granted, and he so did, because that rat-bastard had somehow figured out a way to make Dean’s brain go mushy and that made him make bad decisions worse than alcohol ever had. But it wasn’t just that…hiding from him had started this whole mess in the first place. He’d run off and avoided him for three months until Cas had turned on the guilt trip and cranked it to eleven and Dean had caved—and wound up grabbing his _cock_ as a result.

Clearly, running off and avoiding him for months at a stretch wasn’t an option because that caused shit like this and shit like this wasn’t acceptable.

He flopped down on the couch, shifting uncomfortably and trying to get angled right as he pulled the afghan neatly folded over the back of the couch onto himself. Heaving a great sigh, he reached up and rubbed his eyes, shaking his head to himself.

What the fuck was his life, man? He used to get laid on a fairly regular basis by beautiful women. But now, for two years, he’d had nothing but the occasional uncomfortable make-out session. With a dude. Who used to be an angel. And who was still a _dude_ , goddammit!

All he wanted to know was _why_. Why _him_. Why _Cas_. He still hadn’t gotten an answer. And at this point, he sincerely doubted he was gonna get one.

Growling a little, he rolled over again until he was facing the back of the couch and closed his eyes.

_Whatever. I’ll worry about it later._

**Author's Note:**

> Related Fics from "Good Times, Bad Times:"
> 
> “[Dr. Ruth Tells All](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/1895169)” gives Bobby’s take on Cas’s little accident prior to this fic, where he finds out that he knows less about Cas and Dean's sex life than he thought he did.
> 
> “[Revelations](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/1895188)” shows what happened after this fic—turns out it was a much more meaningful event for Cas than it was for Dean.
> 
> “[Different Wavelengths](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/1898564)” tells what happened the next time that Dean snuck upstairs to mack on Cas—seems they both had very different ideas about what they expected to happen.


End file.
